F You, Father Time
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: Jack is a terminally ill warlock that will do anything to save himself. Even if anything means summoning a demon.


**A/N: This is something I posted on Tumblr for Hijack Month in October. I posted it and forgot about it. But then I saw this amazing fanart by miundy-foxy and I thought "what do you know? People actually like this fic" lol, so I'm going to continue it.**

**I will still continue my BH6 one. Both fics are posted on AO3 and anything I post there I tend to finish. So no worries.**

**Anyways, be aware of language, violence, and eventual smut in this fic. Hope you all enjoy!**

**-Alice :)**

* * *

><p>Walmart bags look remarkably like jellyfish, blowing in the wind and tumbling across the parking lot. They're that awkward shade of blue-gray that's kind of menacing, kind of friendly. Like, "hello there, friend, don't mind me. I'm just your friendly neighborhood Walmart bag going about my business. Wouldn't it be a shame if I suffocated you by accident?" It's that shade of blue-gray that covers waiting room floors and school hallways and plastic cases that hold fluorescent lights. Odd, muted, not natural but not unnatural, either. What is it about those Walmart bags?<p>

Just fuck it. Jack doesn't have time to contemplate the existential risk of Walmart bags. He's carrying four of them and jogging across the pavement. Faded white and yellow stripes slashed by tires and old tennis shoes like the ones he's wearing now. The laces are chewed. He runs and sweats through the three layers of cardigans. It's damn embarrassing, that's what it is. If someone peeked out their window, they would see him staggering with his sweaty ass clothes and his Walmart bags and his hobo hair and his bloodshot eyes that make him look like a pothead. The invisible idiot that lives upstairs with his three-legged cat.

He never comes out, they say. And when he does, he always looks like shit. Even in the eighty-five degree heat weighed down with humidity and mosquito spray, he's wearing layers and a scarf. Nose red, eyes sinking into his face. Here's something nice: if he ever needs to dress up as a zombie, he won't have to put on any makeup, 'cause he already looks the part. Jackson Overland, the walking mess. The sick, stupid, desperate mess. His legs are Jell-O when he climbs the stairs. The apartment complex is the kind you see in B-List horror movies. All the doors on the outside, all the blinds white and straight and closed. Neighbors you'll never talk to lean against the metal railing, smoking and peeling the chipped green paint. Couples argue some nights, people bang on shut doors, people scream and call 911 and the cops show up at two in the morning. Sometimes there are people you have never seen and will never see again. They stare at you as they walk down the stairs, bag in hand.

Hey. Hey, is that a Walmart bag? Jack always asks them what's in it, but they never answer. No one ever does. So he watches tenants come and go from the safety of his apartment, smoking and staring out the window. His neighbors don't talk to him. They call him a—

"Fucking weirdo." The little girl that lives next door says it when he's trying to find his keys. She's got her hands behind her back, rocking on her kitten heels. Those are some nice shoes for a six-year-old, blue and strappy. Jack never knew they made heels that small.

"That's a bad word, Sophie." He doesn't look at her, just keeps looking for his keys. He shakes his jacket and rifles through his pockets, hoping he doesn't drop his bags. "Doesn't your mother teach you anything?"

"She taught me how to color inside the lines." The keys clatter to the concrete. She stares at them. "Do you know how to color inside the lines?"

"Yeah, yeah. I've got a bunch of coloring books in my apartment. It's great."

"You don't sound like you think it's great."

Jack sighs. "I like coloring books, okay Sophie? But I'm trying to do something right now. I'm trying, shit, I'm trying to find someth—"

"Do you have cancer?"

He's about to kick the door, but stops. "Huh?"

"Mommy says you look sick all the time, she says you have cancer."

"Well, I don't. So you can tell her that."

"Then what do you have? Mommy said, one time she said, everyone has something." It's the most innocent question ever. Wrapped up in this voice that says things like fuck, coloring, and mommy all in one conversation. Big brown eyes inside her round face, hair hanging straight and stringy. She's a doll. Not in the cute sort of way. No, no, she's one of those demon dolls that smiles and says they're going to kill you.

Not that she means to be. No, no, not at all. It's unintentional. But it's the way she asks the question, the way she blinks and looks up at him. Or maybe it's not her, maybe it's the question itself. Because he's stuttering and shaking his head.

"N-Nothing. I don't have anything."

"But you look bad."

"This is how I look. It's not nice to say those things to people."

"But if you're sick, you should go to the doctor." Sophie twirls pieces of hair. "Mommy goes to the doctor to get check-ups all the time. You should go, too."

"Okay, sure, I'll go." This is fucking ridiculous. Groaning, he rests his forehead against the chipped green paint. "Where the hell are my keys?"

"They're right there. I'll get them."

"Uh, thanks." He kneels and takes them from her tiny hands. So small and warm. Like she's had her hands stuffed in oven mitts.

They're eye-level for half a second. Then she bends down to pick up a dead dragonfly that's been flattened against the concrete. Jeweled wings catch the orange sunlight. They're stained glass windows with a few pieces punched out.

Jack stands up a little too fast. Sophie's face goes round and round. Shit, he needs to get inside. The Walmart bags are getting heavy.

"You okay, you fucking weirdo?"

He shakes his head. "I'm fine. Thanks for finding my keys. And don't say that word anymore."

"I'll try not to."

She's still standing there when he closes the door. Little rectangle of light, getting skinnier and skinnier till it starves itself and dies. Rest in peace.

He locks the door. Deadbolts it, moves the chain, and turns the handle twice. It's locked, locked, locked. Three is a good number. God has three parts. Satan has three faces. Walmart had a sale on generic peanut butter today, three for one. Jack bought six jars. Eye pressed against the peephole, he looks for Sophie. Gone. The concrete walkway is empty and silent. Cars speed by on the highway, but that's the only sound. Or is it? Listen harder, people are talking in the apartment downstairs. No, that's a television, blaring and screaming about the stock market. It's the same people that blast C-Span at three in the morning. Jack would rather hear gunshots than that shit.

But it's clear, that's all that matters. No one outside, no one peeking through the window. He slides down, feeling every slit and gash in the paint. Fingernail marks, knife wounds, angry shards of broken glass. This poor door has been through enough. But he still beats it with the back of his head and drops the bags onto the floor. Peanut butter jars roll across blue-gray tile. Everything else is fine, a few black candles, some matches, some cracked geodes that are stuck on cheap necklaces, and a package of Crayola chalk. Nothing broken except for the blue piece of chalk, it's cracked down the middle now.

Jack's head is cracked down the middle. An antennae TV hit with a sledgehammer, a stack of paper shoved through the shredder, a slab of meat carved out with a cleaver. It's happening more often. Twice a day instead of once. Sudden instead of creeping. When he was in line at the cash register he felt it coming on. A feeling even more shitty than usual. Shaking legs and fingers, cold sweat and hot body. Fuck, the fever just skyrockets. One second, gone. And then it's in his bones, weighing down his eyes and tongue and head. And the cashier is telling him that his total is $16.50.

$16.50. Sir? Sir? Hello? Hey!

Someone shook him. He nodded, handed them a twenty and walked away.

Jack drove with the heat turned all the way up. Teeth chattering, he muttered some kind of shit spell and turned all the lights green. Did anyone get in an accident? Who gives a fuck?

Just drive.

He did.

And Sophie's face still lingers in his brain. "What do you have? What do you have?"

"Nothing…" He whispers it and covers his eyes with one hand. The other twitching on the tile. It's easy. Just close your eyes, breathe, and ignore the itching. It's inside, your esophagus, your intestines, your stomach. This itching that doesn't go away, no matter how much you scratch your skin. Because it's inside you, dummy. And that's the whole point. One time, the landlord discovered his three-legged cat. No pets allowed, so they fed it a can of tuna with a few razor blades in it. The cat came home, meowed at Jack, and threw up all over the tile. Teeth bared, it tried to bite its own stomach out. It succeeded and died like a disemboweled soldier on a beach.

Fucking landlord. They've caused Jack so many angry tears. It's easy enough to bring a cat back, but still. Now it never leaves the apartment. Poor, traumatized thing. Who knows what it saw in cat hell?

Jack wants to claw out his stomach. And his throat and his tongue and everything inside. It'll pass, just relax. But no, fucker, you don't get it. You don't get the feeling of a cleaver in your head and razor blades in your stomach. You don't get the raking of nails across a closed shirt. He knows he shouldn't, but holy shit. Three layers of clothes are enough. Right? Enough to keep his fingernails out. So he pretends that he doesn't have hands and he sits on them till they go numb. Fuck, it's awful. Pain that bites and pokes and prods. He lies face down on the tile and tries not to scream into it. At least it's colder down there, on a few weeks' worth of dust and ashes. And he can bang his head against the floor and writhe and dig his nails into his scalp. Dig them somewhere, please, anywhere but in your torso. Don't disembowel yourself, idiot.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, a fucking half hour. It only ends when the razorblades come out. His razorblades are clumps of congealed blood and black shit that looks like tar. He throws it up in one of the Walmart bags. There's no way he's recycling it now. What a waste.

His three-legged cat nuzzles his sweaty cheek. Then he curls up next to the numb hands and licks every finger. Jack closes his eyes for a while.

He opens them after an hour, maybe two, and sits on the pleather couch he got off Craig's List. God knows what this thing has been through. In the short time it's been at his apartment, it's already been bled on, puked on, set on fire and doused in bleach. Dusted with ashes, covered in feathers and fur and peppered with bone meal that tasted salty on Jack's tongue. His cat sheds all over the damn thing. He uses a quick spell to clean it. But when it's late and he's tired, he lets it sit there in the dark. Alone and filthy. Tonight, he's sprawled across it, chin nodding against his chest. A fan spins overhead. A fan spins next to him, standing and making a humming sound. It's nice. Subtle, settled into the deepest part of his ear. He listens to the hum rather than the TV.

Recovering from an episode takes a minimum of thirty minutes. Jack listens as the feelings slip away. The itching fades, the fever recedes like a tide. When he's sick, it's like he's packed inside a freezer which is packed inside a blazing oven.

But who is he kidding? He's always sick. That's what it does to you, the disease no witch or warlock wants. Ever. It's not like the Bubonic Plague. That's the thing everyone laughs at. They toss jokes like throwing knives and cackle at the stupidity of their ancestors. Because no gets that anymore and if people just took a fucking bath they would have been find. No one makes fun of cancer. No one pokes and prods it with their sharpened words. Oh God, no. You don't say a word about cancer. You don't say a good word or bad word. You say nothing at all.

That's what Jack has, the magical equivalent to cancer. They call it Kronos Disease, not to be confused with Crohn's Disease. Humans can't get it, humans haven't even heard of it. Named after the god that ate his children, the symbolism is so pretentious it's almost more painful than the actual sickness.

Jack could debate that. It's non-contagious, it's sudden, and it's hell. A basic list of symptoms: fatigue, loss of weight, loss of appetite, lowered immune system, fever, sudden instances where your body literally starts to reject your own fucking blood. And then your insides itch until you puke up the black clumps of red blood cells and platelets. It gets worse over time. One day, the instances go from sudden to permanent and you go into freefall. Afraid of its own blood, your fragile little body purges itself of every last drop. Then you lie there, quiet, empty, dead.

Yeah, let's skip that last part.

Jack sits up, blinking and looking for the remote. The cat's sitting on it. "Get up. I'm sick of Modern Marvels."

He hisses.

"Don't be an asshole. I've got five months left, tops. Let me watch something I actually like."

Another hiss.

"Fine. Fuck you."

There's a beat of silence, nothing but the hum of the fans and Jack's coughs. The cat paws the remote. He keeps changing channels until Jack says, "Yeah, whatever, that's fine. Thanks."

It's an episode of America's Next Top Model, some repeat from Cycle One. Girls pose in a Seven Deadly Sins photo shoot. How ironic, one of the rumors among the magic community is that Kronos is caused by Envy. More of a superstition than a rumor, but still, that doesn't stop them from whispering behind his back.

He doesn't move until the episode is over.

It's over and he's migrated to the bathroom. Where the countertop is made of plastic and the floor is chipped tile. Where the light bulbs flicker with dead mosquitoes, the toothbrush holder is full of crystals and dust, and spell books are stacked behind the toilet. Where a summoning circle is drawn on the seat in black Sharpie, just in case he needs to summon something while taking a shit. Hey, it happens. Where the shower curtain is held up by a rusted rod and the faucet leaks cold water.

Where he gets the idea. The sudden, stupid, desperate idea. He stares at the Sharpie circle and thinks of the black candles he bought at Walmart.

Sophie's face wavers in his head. "But if you're sick, you should go to the doctor."

Jack smiles. Oh sweet, little Sophie, he has something better than a doctor. He has cheap candles and crystals and ash and a bag of black, tarry blood. He has magic and desperation, a dangerous combo.

He has nothing to lose.

When Jack was eighteen, he had sex for the first time. It was with an older warlock, one with slicked back hair and ashy skin. They fucked in a basement, over a half-done pentagram that no one ever finished drawing. Those years had been crazy. Jack jumping with so much hot energy, his thighs always burning, his pupils always dilated. He begged for it on the rotten, wooden floor and wrapped his legs around that boney ribcage. A few words for it: strange and split open.

When Jack was nineteen, he met a girl with color changing hair. Her hands were small, she masturbated while they kissed. He'd never known anything hotter. Except for the candles that burned black beside them, the words she whispered in Latin and Hindi that brought spots to his eyes. There was a vase of dried peonies on her nightstand and her sheets were covered in stars. He'll never forget the way his eyes rolled when she fingered him.

When Jack was twenty, he started dancing at a club. Easy money, and it was fun. An Australian with magic tattoos watched him every Friday night. Jack crawled towards him on his hands and knees. Watching the tattoos spiral and rock like boats on the water. So close, they were about to kiss. But they didn't pay him enough for that, so he breathed alcohol in the Australian's face and slunk back to the pole. His cock strained against his thong that night.

When Jack was twenty-one, he got sick. Fucking Kronos and his terrible timing. At the pinnacle of his career, everything fell apart, unraveled like bandages at his feet. You can't work if you keep coughing up blood. You can't dance if your body keeps seizing up in pain. You can't do shit. At least, that's what they told him.

Now he's twenty-two and dying slowly. We're all dying, if you want to get existential about it. But what kind of pretentious asshole looks into the face of someone with borrowed time and says "I'm dying, too"?

A lot of people in the magical community are pretentious assholes. They roll their eyes whenever he goes to the bar and coughs into a paper napkin.

"What's the point of even coming if you're just gonna be sick all night?"

"Fuck, we get it. You're dying. So what? We all are."

"There's gotta be something out there, some kind of spell. You're just not looking hard enough."

And then he's had enough. He slams his drink so hard it shatters. Shaking, blood running down his chin, he leaves without paying. Yeah, he can't go there anymore.

But that doesn't matter right now. All he cares about is drawing the perfect circle. Chalk held between his teeth, he stands up and evaluates. Not bad for a dead man. He's always been good at drawing circles. Someone once told him that's the mark of a crazy person. With one swipe of his hand, he turns the chalk into a cigarette and lights it with a thought. Smoke veils his face. For a moment, his eyes glow like they used to.

It's almost complete. The circle is drawn, the candles are arranged. He finishes the inside, drawing straight lines and sigils he memorized when he was twelve. No right angles. The paper crinkles when he kneels. Don't rip, damnit. His whole apartment is made of tile, so he has to unroll massive sheets of paper he bought at some craft store. Layers black and thin, he's got to be careful. Smoke slips through his lips, sweat beads on his forehead. Almost done, almost…

"Fucking finally." Jack stands up without using his hands. It's harder now, but he can't risk smearing the chalk. Rocking on his heels, he smiles and flicks ash onto the tile. Light the candles one-by-one. Try not to cough on them. Pile ash in the middle of the pentagram, dump the Walmart bag out and watch the congealed blood harden like lava. It's disgusting as shit, but he doesn't notice or care. A few deep breaths later and he's ready at the edge of the circle. No book. No spells scrawled on torn napkins. Just Jack standing and looking like death and rolling the cigarette between his teeth.

When he utters the words, the burned out butt hits the floor. It's brief, it's Latin, like most spells are. Using a dead language is so fucking pretentious but he does it anyways. He's not calling Satan or asking for Asmodeus to come and grant him a perfect sex life. He's just asking for a little bit of help.

Basically it's, "Look, I know there are plenty of demons out there looking for a contract. I'll be honest, I'm sick and dying and I would really like to live past Halloween. Maybe even longer. Don't try to scam me, cause I'll fucking know. Just don't try it. And don't pop in just to taunt me or whatever other crap you all do. I'll do anything short of chucking a baby out a window for this contract. If you show up, make it worth my while."

No answer.

The fan spins overhead. The fan spins beside him. A drop of water falls from the faucet and into the kitchen sink. Someone talks next door, they're muffled and sound like they're underwater. Jack sighs. Well, you can't expect demons to come when they're called.

No, wait, you can. You can definitely expect them to come when they're called because that's the whole point of a summoning. That's the whole fucking point.

"Fine, let's try again."

He walks to the pantry and grabs six more candles. Fifteen minutes later, he's walking back, and then he's back and grabbing six more candles. The digital clock clicks every half hour. The pantry door is cracked open, spider webs strung across the white wire shelves. Jack holds his lighter over the black wicks, his face shining with sweat in the orange light. It's not working. Every word is spat out, enunciated and said with so much force he's afraid he'll spit his teeth out. There's no way he's saying it wrong. No way in hell. But just to be safe, he'll check Google. Once. Twice. Three times. Sweat drips onto the screen. He coughs and ignores the pain in his side. Those candles were cheap, less than a dollar at Walmart. He's going through them like an alcoholic through a bottle of vanilla extract. Maybe it's the candles? Maybe their flames are too weak?

Standing on a wooden step-stool, he rifles through his closet. There's a lot of shit on that shelf. A toy top, a spool of ribbon, a screwdriver, and a water gun. An old container of pudding, knitting needles, a clear umbrella that lets you see the sky when it rains. He tosses the box of markers and the pair of handcuffs aside. Oh, that's where his crowbar went. And look over there, the blue hoodie his boss gave him when he worked at the Fork and Dagger. A kinky ass nightclub with chrome seats and sex swings made of leather. All Jack ever did was dance, but he would sit in the swings after closing every now and then. His boss gave him the jacket as an "employee of the month" present. Hundred percent silk, with his name written on the back. Frost.

He throws the pudding container on it. There's an extra big candle in here somewhere. It's thick and white, the wick at least an inch long. It looks out of place in the circle. No one cares. Another hour later and the circle has been changed again. It's a sloppy summoning circle with mismatched candles all around. Jack kneels at the edge. It's so hot, his pants are off and he's sitting on sweaty, sticky legs that look so, so white in the darkness. Wrinkled T-shirt and boxer briefs. There he is, the most pathetic warlock in all of history. That skin is so fucking pallid and those eyes are so sunk in. The hands clench and unclench on naked thighs. The thighs shiver 'cause the A/C just turned on. Halleluiah, that thing's been broken for a week. But the most pathetic warlock ever doesn't care. He sways, staring into the circle, at the pile of dried blood, and wondering what he has to do.

Who he has to be.

How he has to act.

What he has to say.

Something, anything. Anything at all, just to make someone come. Somebody, anybody. He traces over the chalk circle, making the lines hard and round. And then he throws the chalk at the wall and it shatters. Staring into the circle, watching the blood and wax and fire congeal. His fingertips are at the edge. He touches the circle and his eyes glow and roll back into his head. The words that come out are Latin and something else. Something weird, that's for sure. Weird as fuck. It's all numb. The pain in his side reduced to buzzing. An obnoxious buzzing that swallows his ears whole. Wicks burn brighter, brighter. Flames turn blue, turn red, turn black. Jack can't stop. He can't let go now. Words come so fast he bites his tongue, but it keeps moving amidst the blood. A steady stream that slips down his chin and hits the ground. With the friction fast as lightning, he's moving and shaking and ripping the paper apart with his legs. Nails dig into his palms. More words. Less fire. Fast speech. Slow desire. Desire that burns like candles as the digital clock screeches. It can't click, can't bring itself to change the time. Not while the fire is lit, smoldering in Jack's empty eyes. He grabs the darkness with both hands, forces it to stop, stop, stop. The fans keeps spinning. The pantry door slams shut. The faucet whistles as white hot water comes rushing out. A candle explodes, a grenade of color and wax. Both hands on the circle, Jack never lets go. He grits his teeth, the fan crashes down onto the coffee table, and it's over.

It's all fucking over.

Jack feels the shards of glass around his feet. He doesn't move. People are shouting next door. Footsteps, and someone's knocking on his door. Sophie screams, "Hey, hey! Hey, fucking weirdo! What was that? You okay?"

He should be nice and answer it. Stick his face out, smile, and say, "Hello, little one. There's nothing to worry about here, I'm clumsy, that's all. Oh, silly me!"

But that would be stupid for several reasons.

One, he's not like that. There's no way he could ever say those words seriously. No way in hell.

Two, Sophie is small and happy and perfect. If she looked at his face right now, her little world might break apart.

Three, he can't move. He literally can't move. Because someone is standing in the middle of his circle, toes curled into the dried blood and wax. A man that looks kind of like a dragon. Or maybe it's a dragon that looks kind of like a man? Whatever it is, Jack can't look away. Not because he's never seen eyes that green. Not because he's never seen freckles that almost look alive. Not because he's never seen nails sharp as knives or horns that curve like a telekinetic's spoons.

No… it's what the dragon man says.

It's what the demon whispers as he cocks his head.

"Uh, hey, there. Need some help?"


End file.
